Night and the City
by TheScarletOctopus
Summary: Los Angeles, 1955. Andre Harris, lover of nightclub singer Tori Vega, has been arrested for a murder he didn't commit. To save him, Tori must turn to the last person she wants to see - her estranged sister Trina, L.A.'s finest female private eye.


**Disclaimer: don't own.**

 _September 1955_

Fall had come early to the city of Los Angeles, and with it, rain. No gentle mist, but a driving, relentless downpour that battered the buildings of stone and brick and filled the gutters to flooding. The neon lights of theaters flickered in puddles and turned the empty boulevards into a crazy quilt of diffused greens, reds, yellows, and blues. High above, the vault of the sky was as dark and thick as coal tar.

The rain's steady drum was barely audible through the walls of the Brown Bear nightclub. Tucked away on a quiet side street, far from the chaotic buzz of people that packed downtown each night, the club was a well-kept secret, the perfect haunt for celebrities who liked their jazz cool, their drinks strong, and their doings private.

Nearly every booth was full tonight, and with good reason. The patrons sipped martinis and drummed their fingers impatiently, waiting for the lights to come up on the darkened stage.

At last a tuxedo-clad André Harris slipped in through the side door and took his seat at the piano. There was a burst of applause; he gave a perfunctory little bow and turned back to the keys. Silently his fingers ran up and down, limbering up to rid themselves of the evening's chill, never quite making contact with the ivories.

A spotlight came on, throwing the patrons and André into deep shadow. The curtains at the back of the stage parted, and out stepped the star attraction: Victoria "Tori" Vega. An audible gasp rose from every direction – she was always beautiful, but perhaps never more so than tonight, with her blue gown hugging her slender figure and highlighting the deep brown of her long, swirling locks. With a shy little nod to the clapping, cheering crowd, she took her place beside the piano and winked at André. He grinned and launched into an introduction, a silky-smooth series of arpeggios.

Tori began to sing. The rawness of her voice, its desperate vulnerability, sent a thrill through everyone within earshot.

 _There's a somebody I'm longing to see_

 _I hope that he turns out to be_

 _Someone to watch over me_

 _I'm a little lamb who's lost in the wood_

 _I know I could always be good_

 _To one who'll watch over me…_

"I'll watch over you, babe!"

She froze. André's hands hung motionless over the keys; he turned and scowled into the audience.

In the darkness, a tall, lanky shape struggled drunkenly to its feet. It lurched into the spotlight, and Tori gasped.

"C'mere and gimme a kiss, honey," said Ryder Daniels. The face that had graced a dozen movie posters was flushed, distorted with too much gin. Tiny snickers broke the silence as he reached out to embrace Tori and succeeded only in tripping over his own feet.

"Ryder, buddy, why don't you come back and sit down? You're making a scene."

Daniels shook off the curly-haired, bespectacled man who had taken hold of his shoulders. "Lemme be, Shapiro. You're my agent, not my nanny."

"I'm not sure there's a difference anymore," Robert Shapiro muttered under his breath. Then, louder, with fake cheerfulness: "Sorry about the disturbance, folks. Mr. Daniels isn't well today."

"I'm not sick. If I was sick, would my heart be poundin' the way it is right now?" He grabbed Tori around the waist and pulled her to him. "Gimme a kiss, Vicky. You don't always gotta be such a cold fish."

In a flash André Harris was up from his piano bench. His powerful arms wrapped around Daniels in a half-nelson and wrenched him away. "You keep your hands off her, you hear?"

"Don't you touch me, _filth!_ You know who I am?"

"Yeah, I know who you are. I just don't care."

Tori was shaking, but her eyes were hard, determined. "It's never going to happen, Ryder. I've told you that before. Just leave me alone."

"Women don't turn me down, doll. That just doesn't happen."

"It's happening now. So get a clue and beat it." She drew back her hand and slapped him full across the face.

The shock of the blow seemed to sober him up, and with sobriety came cruelty. "You think you can be happy with this guy?" He jerked his chin at André, who still held him in a grip of iron. "You're never gonna get anywhere in life if you shack up with a gentleman of his…complexion." And Daniels' mouth twisted into a vicious, mocking sneer.

"You listen to me," André Harris growled. "If you ever come near her again, you're a dead man. You understand? Dead." To punctuate his words, he pulled back until Daniels gave a yowl of pain, his arm nearly out of its socket.

"Enough!" The club manager, Erwin Sikowitz, charged in and pushed the two men apart. "Mr. Daniels, I'm truly sorry for André's…rash words. He has a habit of letting his anger get the better of him."

"Me?! _He's_ the one who started-" André shouted, but Sikowitz cut him off. "Get your things, Harris. You're fired."

The pianist's jaw dropped. His strength failed him, and he sank down onto the bench, staring ahead into empty space with eyes full of despair.

"That's not fair!" cried Tori. "I won't sing without André!"

"Your contract says otherwise," Sikowitz shot back. "I'll start the auditions for a new accompanist in the morning. Now, Mr. Daniels, if there's anything I can do to make it up to you…perhaps a round of drinks on the house…" He ushered the movie star to the door. Robbie Shapiro followed close on their heels, muttering angrily to himself.

Tori sat beside André and hugged him tightly. "I'm so sorry, 'Dré. This is all my fault."

"No, baby," the pianist whispered through clenched teeth. "It's Ryder Daniels' fault. And one way or another, he's gonna pay."

It was three o'clock in the morning, but Ryder Daniels couldn't sleep. He had munched aspirin after aspirin, downed glass after glass of seltzer water, in the hopes of curbing the headache that was splitting his skull in two. Nothing doing. As the gin left his system, the world wavered and spun before his eyes. The hamburger he had eaten hours before threatened to come back up, and he clenched the headboard of his bed to steady himself.

The bedroom door eased silently open.

Daniels paid little attention to the shadow as it approached him. "You still here, Shapiro? Go on home already. Damage control can wait until tomorrow."

The shadow drew nearer, until it loomed over Daniels' crouching figure. Still it said nothing.

"You don't know how to take a hint, do ya, pal? I said, go-"

The piano wire bit deeply into his throat. Starved for oxygen, he clawed at the garotte, but the remorseless hands that held it simply pulled tighter and tighter. Blackness appeared at the edges of his vision, then grew until he could see nothing more than a pinprick.

"D-don't-" he gasped.

The hands pulled tighter still.

The pinprick vanished. Everything was blackness.


End file.
